


Fishing on Dry Land

by aurilly



Category: Lost
Genre: Espionage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juliet and Sayid are partners in Ben's covert spy operation (ie. Oceanic Six assassin stuff)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishing on Dry Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozmissage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozmissage/gifts).



Juliet wakes first. She always does.

Beside her, Sayid sleeps peacefully, his breathing heavy—almost a sigh—but not a snore, with the inhales much louder and longer than the exhales. It’s like he’s pulling the entire world’s sorrow inside him each time, and is then unable to let it go. The sound of Sayid breathing has become, in this new life, like the sound of the ocean back when Juliet was on the island—soothing and beautiful and sad and wrong.

They have nowhere to be today, or tomorrow, either. Ben’s scheduled to call with the details of the next mission when they get to Geneva. He isn’t in the room with them, but his presence is everywhere: controlling, limiting, spying. She’s sometimes sensed the presence of a camera in some of their hotel rooms, of a shadow in certain restaurants, of a tailing car on quiet streets. The surveillance is never overt, but the constant threat has been enough to keep her and Sayid in line for over a year.

Last night’s mission was particularly sordid. The assignment was to get into an embassy soirée; they had separate covers this time, playing strangers instead of running their usual couple routine. It was Juliet’s first time being the main player with the knife hidden under her dress, with Sayid as the charmer on the party floor. After a few practiced lines (taught to a skeptical Sayid earlier that afternoon), the mark’s tramp of a girlfriend had spent the entire night leaning into him, dancing with him, ‘accidentally’ brushing the satin of her dress against the back of his hands.

Juliet dug her nails into her palms and tried not to watch them even as she mirrored the girl’s actions on the mark—a good-looking but cruel investment manager from Athens—lured him into a back room, and tied him up for Ben’s people to take away. Sayid was still (unnecessarily) chatting with Lucie when Juliet walked through the ballroom on her way out. She left him there, took the long, beautiful route back to the hotel, and drank champagne alone in their room. He must have come home after she fell asleep.

Now, Juliet sits up gingerly so as not to wake him. Her back sinks into the upholstered headboard and her fingers rest casually (not so casually) beside his pillow while she watches him sleep. At times like this, the illusion almost feels real.

They’ve been doing this for so long now that they make a much more functional married couple than she and Edmund ever did. What they lack in intimacy, they make up for in familiarity, which, at least until recently, Juliet has sworn is better, richer, and not worth trading.

(She’s always been good at lying to herself, though.)

She read his file weeks before she ever met him, knew everything she thought there was to know—facts and figures, lists and dates. She was wrong. It wasn’t until a year later, when Ben made them partners, that she began to learn anything at all.

She knows now that Sayid doesn’t take sugar in anything—in coffee, in tea, in the oatmeal he so randomly loves. He brushes his teeth for exactly three minutes, buzzing the brush with timed precision over every tooth, and he flosses like plaque is a sworn enemy. He’s secretly funnier than anyone gives him credit for, and she’s recently discovered that what she used to think were oddly timed allergy attacks are actually manifestations of his embarrassing weakness for puns; his nose twitches almost cutely, restrained. When he wills himself into slumber every night, he’s on his back, arms stiff near his body as if he’s ready to jump to action at any moment (he is); but once he’s truly and deeply asleep, he rolls onto his side and curls up like the vulnerable baby that no one except herself is left to know he actually is. He closes his eyes when he shoots a gun, both before, to force himself to do it, and after, to punish himself for having gone through with it.

Sayid is a live wire. Juliet’s tried almost everything, but so far, sleep is the only thing that smooths away the crease in his forehead. And he doesn’t get enough of it.

The familiarity isn’t one-sided, either; she’s observant, but he’s the master. Sayid doesn’t say much, but Juliet’s noticed how quickly he started taking the side of the bed farther from the window; she’s always striven to be close to the light. He always senses exactly when she wishes he would go out and run errands, leaving her to watch 90s American movies by herself in the hotel rooms they share; they’re always dubbed into languages she doesn’t speak, but even without knowing the words, the visual sentiments still remind her of a home and a life she’ll never be able to go back to.

She doesn’t know how he so immediately discovered her love of trains, but unless there’s an ocean to cross, it’s how he’s always booked their travel—in first-class wagons and luxury sleeping cars. As far as she can remember, she’s never mentioned her love for Stephen King in his presence, but _The Shining_ magically appeared on his nightstand two days ago; he’s even pretending to like it. He’s somehow put together which necklaces go with which dresses, and he always has the right one in hand to help her with the clasp before she’s even thought about it.

He knows her like the backs of his rough hands, but she hopes he doesn’t know her quite well enough to have figured out that this is the real reason she’s started wearing jewelry again.

The only thing that gives her pause, gives her hope, is the way his fingers sometimes linger in the hairs over her neck, radiate heat in the space between their respective skins. To anyone else, the touch would be imperceptible, feather-light; not even Sayid knows that Juliet has nerve endings everywhere, even in places no one else does. She’s a live wire, too.

She knows he’s probably simply moving her hair aside so as not to catch it in the clasp, but rational thought isn’t enough to keep her head heavy or her lips from parting each time.

This crush (the word feels small, stupid, incorrect) or whatever it is, has crept up on her, engulfed her before she even realized she was falling. It’s impossible, ill-advised, and inappropriate. Even without Ben’s certain psychotic jealousy, there are too many ghosts between them and behind them; too many spouses run over, too many lovers killed by a traumatized cop. Two will always be too many.

As she watches the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, Juliet knows she needs to remind herself how to settle, to make do with her lot, like she always has.

“I’m sure the view out the window is much more attractive,” Sayid says sleepily, and it startles her. He hasn’t even opened his eyes to see her staring. He can’t be more than half awake, but it’s already there: the crease in his forehead.

“Not today. It’s pouring out,” she says, forcing calm brightness. Grounding her act in teasing, she adds, “And stop fishing for compliments.”

Sayid cracks an amused eye open and quickly shuts it again. He remains on his side, but stretches his legs out. “I am no fisherman. My one attempt ended in Jin losing patience and sending me away,” he mumbles into his pillow.

Juliet huffs to herself at the mental image, but it’s not quite a laugh. “And who needs an ocean when you have Lucie?”

She’s relived that his eyes are shut, because it means that he can’t catch her wincing. That, that right there, is why this is the worst development that could ever have happened. It’s because comments like that sometimes (very rarely, to be fair to herself) slip out, wriggle past her perfect, stone-cold mastery of self: irrational little jealousies, irrelevant little insecurities. She thought she’d gotten over these weaknesses. She thought she’d closed herself off in order to do this job. It turns out she’s still human, after all.

“Thank you for the coaching, Juliet. I must admit, I didn’t believe it would work, but she reacted exactly as you predicted. Next time I genuinely want to recommend myself to a woman, I will make sure to ask for your advice first.”

At this, Juliet looks out the window at the rainy Roman street. She would laugh, if only she didn’t feel sick to her stomach. ‘Recommend himself to a woman?’ Leave it to Sayid to be a deadlier version of Mr. Darcy.

“I’d be happy to,” she says with a hard smile he can’t see. “You’re hopeless without me.”

He props his hand on his elbow to gaze up at her, but Juliet’s had enough. She spent all night pretending, not just for him, but for an entire party; she’s too exhausted to do it this morning, too. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and eases herself up and into a stretch.

“I know,” he says softly, after she’s done, after entirely too long of a pause. She’s already shutting the bathroom door behind her.

It’s already noon, and the time passes like any other of their days off. Sayid orders a late breakfast from room service while Juliet quickly checks CNN for any earth-shattering news (none). She grabs a croissant as soon as the bellhop arrives with the tray, and holds it between her teeth while she rummages through last night’s purse for a tip. Sayid sips his cappuccino and reads _The Shining_ while she flips through the pages of the _Miami Herald_ that she’s asked to be delivered to their room every morning. From time to time, she shows him an article that might interest him, and he asks her for clarification on American references mentioned in the book.

Hours pass like this until the phone rings. He goes to pick it up, and it’s Lucie. Of course. Juliet can hear her sultry French accent from across the room. Sayid is clipped and polite, entirely too tense for someone who’s taking a call from a beautiful woman.

“So?” Juliet asks when finally hangs up.

Sayid takes a minute to respond. His eyes survey the pattern on the bedspread. “Her boyfriend disappeared with a strange blonde woman last night, and hasn’t returned her calls all day.”

“Right.”

They don’t look at one another; it’s too ugly.

“Since she is now free, she would like me to take her out tomorrow night,” he continues.

“And?” Juliet’s voice is as even as his. The more it hurts, the more firmly the mask falls into place.

“What do you think of La Pergola?” he asks, mentioning the one truly expensive place they both know in this strange city.

She keeps her voice even, almost sarcastic, as she asks, “Are you trying to recommend yourself to her? Is that what this is?”

“What would you want if it were you?”

“Well…” Her heart plummets into her stomach as the words spill out of her mouth. He’s never been this clueless or this cruel, but Juliet’s nothing if not a good sport. “It’s too easy to go to places like La Pergola when you’re as rich as everyone knows you are. Taking her somewhere unexpected, that costs less but has more character, shows you’re making an effort.”

“What else?”

Juliet bites her lip, pushing the narrative further. “When those rose peddlers come in, maybe get her one. It’s clichéd but… it works. Oh, and talk about the crash.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “The crash?”

“It’s a great date story. Very dashing and romantic and heroic.”

“I can hardly tell her the truth.”

Juliet shrugs. “So lie. Lie like you always do.” There’s only so much she’s willing to help with this. Even masochists have limits.

She needs some fresh air, so she calls the front desk and asks the concierge where she can find a good park to run in, to hopefully pound the pain away; she knows the old man is shaking his head at yet another American _bella signorina_ intent on making a public spectacle of herself.

As she makes her way around the Borghese garden, three times, the despair lessens to manageable levels. Adrenaline always helps. She wonders if Ben knows that, too; if he knows that’s what keeps them in the game.

When she returns, sweaty and glowing, her hair a greasy halo, Sayid is sprawled on the bed with his arm over his eyes, dreaming while awake. He sits up when she walks in, and his face brightens somewhat. “I have not been outside today. Would you—”

He doesn’t have to finish the question for her to know what he’s thinking. He wants to go out, visit a museum, get dinner, eat gelato on the street—anything to help them pretend they’re real people instead of shadows, if only for an evening.

“Give me half an hour,” she says.

The routine is the same as last night’s, but this time there’s nothing at stake. Sayid clips his beard while she showers at too-hot temperatures. As usual, he’s careful to come in only after he’s heard the water turn on, and to vacate before she turns it off. Juliet dresses in the bathroom, like she always does, and then comes out to stand in front of the mirror. She pulls her hair into a casual yet elegant upsweep, trying to match his black shirt and wool slacks. Like clockwork, he’s standing behind her with pearls. The little ritual plays out the same way it always does: he passes his hands around her neck, lets the weight of the pearls settle, runs his fingers through stray hairs, and then does the clasp without the slightest fumble; all the while, her blood runs hot and her lips open ever so slightly to let out a silent, invisible pant.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs into the back of her neck.

(It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t say it to all the girls, but he does say it every night; she stopped responding months ago.)

A map of the city and a separate piece of paper stick out of his jacket pocket. Juliet nips it out.

“What’s this?” she asks, surprised to see the Arabic that’s scribbled all over it. He usually writes in English.

Sayid eases the paper out of her fingers and back into his pocket. “Notes. May I request no Italian food tonight?”

“I’m fine with that,” she says, though a small part of her is sad she won’t get to watch the way spaghetti is the only enemy that’s ever eluded him.

The route he’s drawn on his map leads them down musty streets, through secret alleyways, past giant intersections, and around the bend in the river. It involves two taxis and a very long walk in the increasing darkness. Sayid’s legs are shorter than hers (especially when she’s wearing heels like this), but he’s walking so quickly that by the time he pulls her abruptly into an anonymous door, she’s not only completely turned around, but also exhausted.

Sayid must have worn himself out, too, because he leans his back against the door to catch his breath. “I think we lost them,” he pants.

Juliet’s too busy being walloped by a cacophony of strange smells and sounds to hear or register his words. It’s a tiny place, dimly lit and foreign at first, but surprisingly welcoming on the inside. It’s genuine and unfussy and reminds her of Sayid. She takes a look around and realizes she’s the only white person in here, and almost the only woman.

Sayid’s hand rests on the small of her back as the host leads them through a maze of tables and chairs to a tiny table for two in the back. Their knees knock underneath when they sit down.

“Where are we?” she whispers, leaning forward.

He leans forward, too. Even before he says anything, it’s the smile that tips her off and makes her flush for reasons beyond the fact that they’re sitting next to the kitchen.

“An Iraqi restaurant one of the men at the embassy recommended to me last night. I wanted to introduce you to something less expected and more characterful. Unfortunately, I don’t think we are in a touristed-enough neighborhood for the flower peddlers to come in.” He pulls a single rose out of his pocket; the stem has been cut off to only an inch long. There's a question in his eyes as he holds it in the middle of the table. When she takes it, he exhales for longer than she's ever seen him.

Juliet’s tongue feels heavy, stuck behind her teeth. Before she can properly react, the waiter comes over. Sayid says something to him in Arabic, and she realizes she’s never heard him speak it before. He’s always been the foreigner, the Other in the crowd. She knows the feeling. The reminder is enough to end the momentary awkwardness. They’re back.

“What did you tell him?” she asks, as though nothing important has happened (in so many ways, it hasn’t; it’s been happening for ages).

“I ordered appetizers. Apparently, there isn’t a menu.” She can hear the awkwardness dissipating on his side, too. Maybe he isn't so hopeless after all.

Tossing her hair and stretching her hand forward across the table (he takes it, and it’s such a relief), she says, with expertly feigned innocence in her voice, “Tell me about the crash. The island. It must have been _traumatic_.”

His voice remains just as deadpan as her own, even as the corners of his mouth twitch with suppressed laughter. “I assure you it was. I played a lot of golf.”

Juliet grins—the wide, gummy, uncontrolled one she knows is less pretty than her usual half-smile, but ten times more real.

The crease in his forehead is finally gone.


End file.
